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Authors: Sheri S. Tepper
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asked Barbara on one occasion when they were alone and no one could possibly overhear them and report them to the scrutator.
Barbara had frowned, something she rarely did. “Oh, Jenny, I had an older brother, Bertold. Sometimes I hated him. He’d hurt me. He’d twist my arm to make me cry, and then he’d laugh. But sometimes, just once in a while, he was happy, and when he was happy he was so funny and sweet. It never lasted long. He was killed because he was mean and hateful one time too many. He was Papa’s only son, and that’s why Papa is so set on … well, you know.
“After Bertold was killed, I just knew all the mean parts got washed away, and the funny, sweet parts of him were kept, like gold, panned out of gravel, and put in the treasury. Not all of him was worth keeping, but part of him … I don’t think it was lost.”
Barbara sometimes amazed Genevieve. She had such wonderful thoughts, though they, like the gold in Bertold’s nature, were sparse among the gravel of Barbara’s daily self. One had to go panning for them. And ideas weren’t universally admired, either!
“Women should not complicate any matter under consideration by offering opinions,” said Mrs. Blessingham. “To be a handsome, poised, amusing, seemingly passive but managerially brilliant woman is your goal.”
“I did spout at the soirée,” Genevieve admitted shamefacedly to Carlotta. “Father will no doubt be furious.”
Though Genevieve heard nothing directly from her father on the subject of “spouting,” it was the first thingthat came to her mind when she was summoned to Mrs. Blessingham’s sitting room a few days later. On the way there, she wondered if Colonel Leys had told her father, or if someone else had, and if now he was angry with her. If he had heard she had misbehaved, his anger could be taken for granted. She was quite pale when she arrived at Mrs. Blessingham’s office.
“Heaven, child, you’re pale as milk!”
“I thought, perhaps … Father … something …”
“It’s nothing that warrants worry! Your father merely sent a note to say he is bringing an important guest to the next soirée.” The older woman fixed the girl with a doubtful expression. “I would be concerned, of course, if your father intends to betroth you to someone. By the terms of the covenants, you should have another ten years before accepting that responsibility. I have told him as much, but he does not seem to listen.”
“Father does not really listen to women, Mrs. Blessingham.”
Mrs. Blessingham, a commoner who had chosen her lifestyle, her work, and her friends, had grown unaccustomed to including herself in the category “women,” and this label made her blink.
“Well, still we must keep Papa happy, since that is what we do. I asked to see you so we can arrange with Dorothea to do your hair and with Gertrude to select your gown and be sure it is fitted properly. You have grown since last year. Most girls do not grow in height at your age, so we must be sure your stockings and small-linens still fit you well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, as she always said. Then, however, she went on, betraying her own confusion. “Father has not said anything at all about a betrothal.”
“I was merely guessing, my dear. He did not say who he was bringing with him, merely that he wished you to make a good appearance. And Genevieve, please. It might be better if you did not spout. You were seen talking at a great rate at the last soirée, and it is never a good idea to go on so volubly. If it was only chatter, it can be excused as mere nervousness or even playfulness, but do avoid speaking about politics. Few women find commentson political matters well received, and those who do tend to be elderly, with years of exposure to the talk of a husband and his colleagues. At the age of fifty or sixty, if a woman is not contentious, she can sometimes offer an opinion without being silenced.”
“That seems foolish,”
Barbara had frowned, something she rarely did. “Oh, Jenny, I had an older brother, Bertold. Sometimes I hated him. He’d hurt me. He’d twist my arm to make me cry, and then he’d laugh. But sometimes, just once in a while, he was happy, and when he was happy he was so funny and sweet. It never lasted long. He was killed because he was mean and hateful one time too many. He was Papa’s only son, and that’s why Papa is so set on … well, you know.
“After Bertold was killed, I just knew all the mean parts got washed away, and the funny, sweet parts of him were kept, like gold, panned out of gravel, and put in the treasury. Not all of him was worth keeping, but part of him … I don’t think it was lost.”
Barbara sometimes amazed Genevieve. She had such wonderful thoughts, though they, like the gold in Bertold’s nature, were sparse among the gravel of Barbara’s daily self. One had to go panning for them. And ideas weren’t universally admired, either!
“Women should not complicate any matter under consideration by offering opinions,” said Mrs. Blessingham. “To be a handsome, poised, amusing, seemingly passive but managerially brilliant woman is your goal.”
“I did spout at the soirée,” Genevieve admitted shamefacedly to Carlotta. “Father will no doubt be furious.”
Though Genevieve heard nothing directly from her father on the subject of “spouting,” it was the first thingthat came to her mind when she was summoned to Mrs. Blessingham’s sitting room a few days later. On the way there, she wondered if Colonel Leys had told her father, or if someone else had, and if now he was angry with her. If he had heard she had misbehaved, his anger could be taken for granted. She was quite pale when she arrived at Mrs. Blessingham’s office.
“Heaven, child, you’re pale as milk!”
“I thought, perhaps … Father … something …”
“It’s nothing that warrants worry! Your father merely sent a note to say he is bringing an important guest to the next soirée.” The older woman fixed the girl with a doubtful expression. “I would be concerned, of course, if your father intends to betroth you to someone. By the terms of the covenants, you should have another ten years before accepting that responsibility. I have told him as much, but he does not seem to listen.”
“Father does not really listen to women, Mrs. Blessingham.”
Mrs. Blessingham, a commoner who had chosen her lifestyle, her work, and her friends, had grown unaccustomed to including herself in the category “women,” and this label made her blink.
“Well, still we must keep Papa happy, since that is what we do. I asked to see you so we can arrange with Dorothea to do your hair and with Gertrude to select your gown and be sure it is fitted properly. You have grown since last year. Most girls do not grow in height at your age, so we must be sure your stockings and small-linens still fit you well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, as she always said. Then, however, she went on, betraying her own confusion. “Father has not said anything at all about a betrothal.”
“I was merely guessing, my dear. He did not say who he was bringing with him, merely that he wished you to make a good appearance. And Genevieve, please. It might be better if you did not spout. You were seen talking at a great rate at the last soirée, and it is never a good idea to go on so volubly. If it was only chatter, it can be excused as mere nervousness or even playfulness, but do avoid speaking about politics. Few women find commentson political matters well received, and those who do tend to be elderly, with years of exposure to the talk of a husband and his colleagues. At the age of fifty or sixty, if a woman is not contentious, she can sometimes offer an opinion without being silenced.”
“That seems foolish,”
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